Chasing Twisters
by Persephone Price
Summary: When Ichabod up and vanishes without a trace, Abbie will do whatever it takes to get him back. Ichabod/Abbie, rating will likely change to M.
1. One

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sleepy Hollow, or any of its characters.**

**The title of the story comes from a song by Delta Rae (you should listen to it! It goes with the theme really well!)**

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><p><em><strong>ONE<strong>_

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><p>Ichabod Crane disappears without a trace some time between the hours of 10:45 PM, May 20th, and 3:35 AM, May 21st. Abbie knows because these are their last two points of contact.<p>

At 10:45 PM, Abbie drops Crane off at his cabin, says, "Goodnight," and watches him shut the door.

At 3:33 AM, Abbie wakes in a cold sweat, her t-shirt pasted to her body, and frantically calls Crane. He does not answer. She knows it's 3:33 precisely because the green LED glow of her alarm clock seared the numbers into her retinas. By the time she gets the call out, it's 3:34 (she remembers from the top of her cell) and when Crane doesn't answer, it's 3:35.

The thing is, he _always_ answers, no matter the time.

So Abbie races to the cabin, parks her police cruiser sideways in the driveway, and rattles on the door. Again, no answer, so she breaks it open.

Crane is nowhere to be found. There is no sign of a struggle, nothing to indicate that he left the house, even of his own accord. Everything is precisely as it was at 10:45 PM – Crane is just _not there_.

Roughly five hours. That's the window of time that's unaccounted for. A lot can happen in five hours.

She spends twenty minutes of searching before she resorts to calling his name into the dead, musty air. The only response she is met with is that of the chirping crickets, their roaring clearly audible through the screen door. The sound is so thunderous she briefly considers the possibility that they swallowed him up in some biblical plague.

Abbie sinks into Corbin's favorite leather armchair, scrubbing at her forehead. "Think, Mills," she orders, unreasonably shocked when the words are uttered aloud. _This is your job_, she reminds herself. _This is what you do_.

Assess the crime scene.

There's nothing to assess. Everything is the same.

_There has to be something_.

She stands again, wobbling at bit, and narrows her eyes to scour the premises. _Don't be biased_, she coaches, _Look at this objectively_. _Don't let your emotions cloud your judgment._

All the doors were locked. That means one of two things: either he left and locked the door behind him, or he let someone in, they took him, and then _they_ locked the door behind them.

But why would Crane leave in the dead of night? And without his phone? She can see it sitting innocently atop a stack of files, she can see her own missed calls (the first at 3:34 AM, just as it should be) lighting a banner across the top of the screen.

Conversely, though, who would Crane trust enough to let into his home at such an hour? The number is certainly in the single-digits: Jenny, Irving, Katrina, _possibly _Hawley, but that might be stretching it. And it sure as hell wasn't her he was letting in.

Since Irving and Katrina are both shut-up in their own personal lockdowns, that narrows the options significantly.

Abbie quickly fishes her phone out of her back pocket and dials her sister's number.

"Mmm hello?" comes Jenny's groggy voice.

"Is Crane with you?" she barks, leaving no room for pleasantries.

She can hear the rustle of sheets crackle through the earpiece. "What? No?" Her voice sounds suddenly more alert.

" 'cause he's not here," she tells her urgently.

"Whaddyou mean 'here'?"

"He's not at the cabin," she clarifies. "If he's not with you and he's not with me, where the hell is he?"

"You're at the cabin right now? It's four in the morning."

"I-" she falters, not knowing if she should tell her sister the reason she tried to contact Crane in the first place. "I know. I called him and when he didn't answer I got worried."

"Well, is there any sign of a struggle?"

"No. Nothing. It's like he just up and left and locked the door behind him."

"Weird… Did you try calling him?"

"His phone is here."

"Did you check it? Did he make any calls?"

_Good idea._

"No, hold on," says Abbie. She cradles the phone between her cheek and her collarbone and paces over to the table. Sliding her thumb across the screen, she checks his call-log and sees that there were no outgoing calls and the only incoming ones were from her. "Nothing," she informs Jenny, not that she expected to find anything anyway.

"He couldn't have gone far," Jenny reasons. "It's not like he has a car."

"Yeah, but what worries me is that it's a few miles into town and I didn't see any trace of him on my drive over here. The only other direction he could have gone is into the woods."

"Okay, well, at least it's warm out – no chance of him freezing to death. And one of the perks of being a cop is that you don't have to pay attention to that forty-eight hour rule, right? If he doesn't turn up by morning, you can always send a team out."

"Yeah," Abbie mutters absently. The world is vast, but Ichabod's world is tiny. For him not to be in it…

There's a pause on the other end of the line, during which time Abbie assumes Jenny is scrambling to come up with something to say. "This is Crane we're talking about," she replies eventually. "He can hold his own."

"I hope you're right," is all she says before hanging up abruptly.

. . .

It is 8:30 AM on Wednesday, May 21, 2014, and Abbie feels worry promulgating through her body like a cancer. Her eyes are sore from lack of sleep, but the adrenaline twining through her bloodstream is keeping her awake – that, and the dangerous amount of caffeine she has ingested. "No Tom Hiddleston today?" the barista had asked. "No," Abbie had replied, smiling without showing her teeth. She can never go back to Starbucks again.

Her fingers drum hollowly on her desk at the precinct.

"Listen, Mills," drones Reyes, "I appreciate that you're worried about your boyfriend, I do. But this force just doesn't have the resources to go on a wild goose chase through the woods when it hasn't even been forty-eight hours, especially not with everything else that's going on around here."

"He's not my boyfriend," is all Abbie says, her voice sounding far away to her own ears. Her heart-rate picks up – maybe from the coffee, but probably not. Her eyes are fixed on the clock behind Reyes' head, counting the seconds she goes without Crane.

A bit more sympathetically, the police chief adds, "Come find me again once it's been forty-eight hours."

"We may not _have_ forty-eight hours," she hisses, suddenly locking eyes with her in fierce determination.

Reyes holds her stare unflappably. "If there is something specific you are concerned about, Lieutenant Mills, you'd do well to enlighten me."

Abbie flicks her gaze to the clock once more, and her fingers recommence drumming in accordance with each tick. "It's nothing," she murmurs. "Just a feeling."

That day, she calls each hospital within a 50-mile radius fifteen times at least.

. . .

That night, Abbie and Jenny go out into the woods and search and search but come up with nothing. No trail, not even a footprint.

Falling onto the cushy forest floor, Abbie turns her eyes to the stars and demands, "Where is he?!" Those goddamn crickets are still screeching, screeching over her, drowning her out. If it were just quiet, maybe someone would hear her, maybe someone would answer.

Jenny, observing her sister with pity, says, "We should talk to Katrina."

They can't go there at night – not with the Horseman lurking about.

"Where could he have gone?" she demands, as though she hadn't heard her, and Jenny only shakes her head dismally.

Nowhere good.

. . .

It's May 22nd, again at 8:30 AM, and Abbie stands in front of Sheriff Reyes' desk. She announces, "It's been forty-eight hours."

Reyes spares her a cursory glance. "Still no sign of your boyfriend?"

"He's not my boyfriend…" Abbie mumbles inaudibly. Hiking up her volume, she states, "I'd like to lead a search team into the woods. If we could just get the dogs in there, I think-"

"Wait just a second, Mills," she cuts her off. "Now, as far as I can tell, your Mr. Crane is well above being considered a minor, after which time Amber Alert protocol would, indeed, be applicable. But a man of Crane's age and means? It's entirely possible that he just _left_. Unless you can give me any evidence of foul play-"

"He didn't leave!" she bursts out, unable to control herself. To add insult to injury, she even slams her hand on Reyes' desk.

The other woman's brows raise and her expression turns deadly. "Lieutenant Mills-"

"He didn't leave," she repeats more softly, trying to prove she's reined in her temper.

"_Lieutenant Mills_," Reyes warns sternly, "you are obviously distraught, and in dire need of a good night's sleep. I suggest you head home and compose yourself, before you do something rash."

Abbie feels frustration and outrage clawing at her esophagus, but she forces the heat down. _He didn't leave, he didn't leave, he didn't leave! _He wouldn't. He would never leave. He would never leave her.

Irving would never do this. Irving would've listened. Even before he knew about all the supernatural shit in Sleepy Hollow, _he would have listened._

Reyes is condemning her. Just like she condemned her mom, she's condemning her. She thinks she's nothing more than some needy, pathetic jilted lover, and Crane is going to die for it.

Abbie's jaw tightens. "Okay," she says. _Or maybe, _she thinks, _she's trying to smoke me out_. _Withhold help until she figures out what's really going on. _Reyes has seemed suspicious of her all along. Nevertheless, she's not going to bend to this bitch's will.

She storms out of the precinct, turning more than a few heads in her wake.

At 2:12 PM, with the sun at its full height, she and Jenny head to see Katrina.

Abbie hates talking to that woman, hates seeing her shiny, jade-colored eyes. _She's _supposed to be strong – a witch – but something about her just makes Abbie feel like she needs to take care of her. It must be the very thing that drew Crane to her in the first place. Her fragility.

Abbie had never been fragile.

"I haven't heard either Jeremy or Abraham mention anything about Ichabod," Katrina informs them worriedly through the window, referring to each party by a different name than they are familiar with.

"Okay, well, is there anything you can do to help find him? A spell or something?" Abbie presses impatiently. There has to be _some_ reason they came here, some reason they've wasted precious time.

"This house is designed to hinder my magic, but I may be able to attempt something as simple as a locating spell. Just a moment…"

Katrina retreats further into the house, until the shadows hide her from the Mills sisters' view.

"What's the next step after this?" Jenny mutters as they wait in the overgrown grass outside the home.

Sighing, she weakly replies, "Research? I dunno, Jen…"

Jenny's eyes dart back and forth as they read her sister's face, and her brows draw together. "I know you're worried," she attempts to console, "but we'll find him." A bit awkwardly, she lays her hand on Abbie's narrow shoulder.

"I could not locate my husband," Katrina's voice jars them from above.

"What does that mean?" Abbie demands.

"Either whoever or _what_ever has taken him is using magic to conceal him, or…" she falters.

"_Or_?" prods Jenny.

"Or he is… dead."

"He's not dead," Abbie says suddenly. "He can't be."

Katrina stares at her with an inscrutable expression, waiting a beat before replying, "I share your faith, Abigail. Please… find him?"

"I will."

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><p><strong>AN: I know you probably have a lot of questions, but don't worry, they will be answered. I hope I've piqued your interest. Please let me know what you think! :)**


	2. Two

**A/N: Thank you so so much to TranquillityofPassion, nacimynom, driver picks the music, Femmelillies, Iara, Gypsy136, daphne, ElleThom, cocoalounge, Guest, and marshmallowdeviant for reviewing! You guys are awesome! I hope you all enjoy this chapter :)**

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><p><em><strong>TWO<strong>_

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><p><em>There's a great wind rushing over her, howling in her ears. <em>

_Through it, someone shouts, "Abigail!"_

_The sound of her name is muffled, as though it is being spoken underwater. Even so, she would recognize that voice anywhere._

"_Crane!" she calls back, feeling disembodied. She has no conception of where she is, and the wind stabs her eyes, makes it impossible for her to see._

"_Oh Crane oh Crane oh Crane," she chants, unable to stop herself. "Where are you?"_

"_You know, my dear. You know where I am."_

"_I don't!" she shouts brokenly, "I don't!"_

"_Try to remember," he instructs, suddenly gentle. The wind begins to still. She can almost make out his face, almost, but not quite – it's like peering into his reflection in a muddled pool of water. She can see the outline, the colors, but not the details._

"_Remember what?" she murmurs. Everything around them is blindingly white, as though she's trapped in a blizzard. She reaches out towards him, but her hand is met with empty air._

"_Remember what it was that woke you."_

"_It was – " And all at once, she realizes – she can't. She _can't _remember. "I can't," she confesses, uncertain._

"_You must," he states. And again, more softly, "You must."_

Abbie jerks her head off of the table in Corbin's cabin, guilt instantly lapping at her stomach over the stolen few minutes of sleep. She's taken to staying here, now, to immerse herself in the last place she saw Crane; if she's here all the time, maybe she'll finally notice something she missed before.

She wipes the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, only to see Jenny watching her.

"How long was I out for?" she demands, voice hoarse.

"Only like twenty minutes," her sister humors her. "You should get some real sleep. You know, in a real bed? You look like shit."

"No time," she mumbles inarticulately. Only slightly moved by Jenny's testimony, she gives her hair a half-assed combing with her fingers, patting down the errant frizzing.

Jenny's disapproving stare does not wane. "When's the last time you slept like a human being?"

"You already know the answer to that," she shoots back, riveted by the computer screen. How the hell are there no John Does fitting Crane's description _anywhere_ in the entire state? There had to have been some hipsters arrested for public intoxication in Brooklyn _at least._

"You've been scanning the New York police networks for days without a hit. When's the last time you _ate_?" Jenny continues to interrogate.

"What is this, twenty questions?"

"You're gonna land yourself in the hospital. Whole lot of good you'll do Crane there."

"If you're not planning on helping, Jenny, why are you here?" Abbie snaps caustically.

Unfazed, she replies, "You don't need help with Crane right now. You need help with _you_. The bags under your eyes are one shade away from meth-head hooker purple."

"It's been four days, Jenny. _Four days_," she chokes out. "Do you have any idea what that means?"

_She_ does. _She _knows what this means. Humans can survive three weeks without food, and three days without water. Without water, Crane would be dead by now. And that's assuming he was uninjured to begin with.

"You can't treat this like one of your typical kidnappings, Abs," Jenny maintains, "Nothing about this is typical. You need to stop looking at this as a cop, and start looking at it as a Witness."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"The hell if I know," Jenny shrugs. "_You're_ the Witness, remember? Not me. But what I do know is that you need just… stop assuming the worst. It's digging you into a hole, and pretty soon it's gonna incapacitate you."

"I had a dream," she murmurs, almost embarrassedly.

One eyebrow twitches upwards. "What kind of dream?" Jenny demands.

"Just now – Crane was in it."

Her sister leans forward on the table, bracing herself. "_And_?"

"He said… He said I know where he is."

"Cryptic. Great," she snorts. "Why can't anything ever be straightforward?"

"That night… That night he disappeared… A nightmare woke me up. That's why I called him in the first place."

"What was the nightmare about?"

"That's just it," Abbie says, brows drawing together in confusion and frustration. "I can't remember."

. . .

When it's late at night, and all she has are the crickets' excruciating screams, Abbie sometimes doubts Ichabod Crane ever existed. He's been wiped from this earth just as quickly and unexpectedly as he'd entered it – maybe he'd never truly been here to begin with. Maybe he is just a figment of her imagination, a manifestation of her own insanity. Maybe there is no Apocalypse, no Moloch, and the Mills' mother's disease is hereditary. Maybe Jenny should have been left in that mental hospital – maybe she should have joined her.

But then she reminds herself that Reyes saw him, Irving saw him, _everyone else_ saw him. He is _real_, and something has happened to him.

Maybe he was zapped back to the 1700s. Maybe he's just _gone_, maybe he's not coming back, not now, not ever, and in some other time or dimension where she'll never be able to reach him.

She sniffs, tries to beat back tears and the stinging lump in her throat. The cabin smells like sawdust and wood, Corbin and Crane; two of the most well-loved and influential people in her life, now gone. She can see her monochromatic reflection in the unlit computer screen, staring back at her with dull eyes. Jenny was right, she looks like shit. It makes sense, though. It's the same as it always is. People die – everyone around her _dies_. She's just the mess that's left behind.

. . .

"_You're here," she murmurs in disbelief._

"_Of course I am," he laughs. "Where else would I be? You're behaving rather oddly, Miss Mills, if you don't mind my saying so."_

_Miss Mills. She never liked how it sounded, but now it's all she wants to be called._

_Her hand ghosts over his cheekbone, his beard tickling her fingertips. "You're here. You're really here. I missed you so much."_

_His sea-blue eyes are shimmering in the light as an indiscernible look rearranges his features. "Missed me?"_

She is not able to savor the silky purr of his voice. When she wakes up the air is pulsing _Find_ _me find me_, as though all the flowery words Crane ever uttered only amounted to these two.

She rolls over in his bed and cries and cries until it feels like acid is sliding down her esophagus.

. . .

It's May 28th and Abbie is desperate.

She has prepared a plan B, but she doesn't want to use it. Plan B is telling Reyes Crane's a fugitive, and that all his documentation is falsified. She knows this is foolproof – but what she also knows is, if and when they do find Crane, he will be in serious trouble. _Running from the law_ type trouble. If it comes to it, she'll make this call. Having to hide Crane from view is certainly better than having to bury him.

With Irving, plan B would have been – _was_ – telling him everything. Reyes' rigidity and unshakeable adherence to the law is what has propelled her thus far, but it is also what makes her untrustworthy in Abbie's eyes. Irving was different. Irving was insightful and observant, and so yes, telling him the truth was a leap of faith, but it was as safe a leap of faith as she was ever going to find.

To tell Reyes the truth, only to be locked up like her mother, would be an act of complete idiocy. Telling Reyes would be just as good as committing herself to a mental institution and signing Crane's death certificate in one neat sweep.

So, she's come up with a convincing lie. She only hopes she doesn't have to use it.

"Reyes," she pleads, standing in front of the sheriff's desk.

The other woman doesn't need to hear Abbie's entreaty to know what it's about. "Still haven't heard from your boyfriend, huh? No sign of him whatsoever?"

Lieutenant Mills shakes her head. "He's not my boyfriend," she whispers so quietly Reyes does not hear.

Sheriff Reyes isn't a cruel person. She doesn't like to see suffering – what kind of cop would she be if she did? And Abigail Mills is, undoubtedly, suffering. Plus, she knows she's resourceful – if she really hasn't caught any trace of Professor Crane in almost week, maybe something _is_ wrong.

"Maybe it is time to get a team out," she concedes, and Abbie feels relief soothe her insides like a drink of icy water on a sweltering day.

Her spine hunches slightly, her posture succumbing to this fleeting reprieve.

"Thank you," she says sincerely.

Reyes' mouth is pulled in a terse line, and she only nods in acknowledgment. "I'm putting you in charge of the search," she orders. "Get a team together, get the dogs out there, and tell me what you come up with."

Abbie nods animatedly and rushes off to spam Crane's photo to every single police station on the Eastern Seaboard.

. . .

By now, Abbie knows the woods of Sleepy Hollow like the back or her hand. Stepping off the dirt-paved pathway where she parks her car is like coming home.

The trees are green and swollen with leaves, and the air smells damp and ripe. It is spring, after all. Everything is coming to life. Everything except her.

Birds are twittering excitedly overhead, no doubt preparing their nests, and a symphony of different bugs plays their song. Even the German Shepherds seem happy with their long, pink tongues spilling out of their smiling, fearsome jaws as they trot over logs and puddles.

Abbie's hand is gripping one of Crane's shirts – which they're using to track his scent – so tightly her knuckles are losing circulation.

She's not sure what she expects this team to find that she didn't find on her own. She scoured those woods like her life depended on it. But still, she supposes she must remember that they are vast, and she and Jenny are only two people. Not to mention, she's positive that neither of them has a heightened sense of smell.

She has a feeling in her gut, though, that they're not going to find him in the woods. However, she is optimistic about the APB she put out. There's bound to be a hit at some point. There just has to be.

Abbie's leading this search party, though, so she knows she has to be strong and focused. She's been masking her pain all her life – now isn't any different. This morning she put ice on her eyes to quell the swelling and then slathered concealer over the blotchiness. She looks fine. Someone might even go so far as to say she looks _good_.

But the mask she's wearing is made of glass.

"We're gonna split up to cover more ground. Anderson, I want you to head west towards the river, and I'll go east towards the highway. Got it?" Abbie commands.

Anderson, a blond-haired and square-jawed, nods his understanding.

Abbie takes half the party and they trek further into the woods. From Crane's cabin – their starting point – the river is much closer than the highway, so she has more ground to cover. Plus, she's already thoroughly searched the area around the waterfront. It was the first place she looked – bodies of water tend to solve missing persons cases on their own. She just thanks God that wasn't the case in this one.

They search until the sun begins to set, which is miraculously late as they grow closer to the Summer Solstice. And just when the pale corals and oranges start to paint the sky, she hears Moretti shout, "Mills, I think I found something!"

Moretti's dog is rearing. The leash is pulled taut and vibrating like a guitar string and it's barking at something in the underbrush only a few meters from the hike up to the highway rail.

Abbie's heart clenches in anticipation as she flies over everything between her and the dog.

And then she sees.

There, neatly folded under the shrubbery and amongst the weeds, is Crane's beloved wool coat.

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><p><strong>AN: What do you think? Any theories?**


	3. Three

**A/N: Thank you so much to itscalledkarma, Gypsy136, marshmallowdeviant, Femmelillies, uneange1, Dina C, driver picks the music, MandyCakes, Sharon Breaux, VaderGirl52, and Guests for reviewing! Sorry it took so long to update - my life is a little hectic at the moment. I hope you all enjoy this chapter!**

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><p><em><strong>THREE<strong>_

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><p>Now that they've found Crane's coat, Abbie is dangling precariously on the tightrope between elated and devastated. While on one hand the condition of it implies he's still in one piece, the fact that it was in the foliage, by the highway, is not comforting, and only raises a slew of more questions. Why was folded, for one? Was he expecting to return for it? Why did he take it off in the first place, if indeed he was the one to stow it there?<p>

The running theory among the officers – and which Abbie begrudgingly shares – is that he removed it because he got overheated, and stored it in the underbrush so he could come back for it at some point. That coat is, after all, his prized possession; he would never abandon it on a whim, though it does make sense that the climbing temperatures might render it a burden to carry.

And then there's the matter of where they found it – near the highway. Why was he so close to the road? Did someone pick him up? If so, who?

And, most of all, _why_?

Why take Crane out of Sleepy Hollow? If this is Moloch-related – which she suspects it must be, just as _everything that has ever gone wrong in her life _is – what does taking Crane out of Sleepy Hollow and _away_ from Henry and Abraham accomplish?

_Taking him away from _you_,_ some small part of her brain appends. Maybe this isn't about hurting Crane, but about separating the Witnesses.

Still, the rationale behind his disappearance is irrelevant; all that matters is where he is, and how she can get to him.

The coat was found near the highway heading northeast. 'Northeast' is a damn vague concept, but at least it's something – it's a direction for Abbie to point her life in.

She spends the night at the cabin, wishing she could wrap herself in that jacket, in something that could link her to her fellow Witness, in the Crane's scent. She'll have to settle for his sheets, because the coat is in police custody.

Abbie wonders, fleetingly, if there is something inappropriate in her behavior. She's not Crane's wife, after all, she's not Katrina. She's just his… _His what?_ she forces herself to question, _his friend?_ The term seems a ridiculous oversimplification. She's not his friend, she's not his coworker, she's not even his contemporary.

_His soulmate_, part of her baits.

She could almost laugh. Yeah, sure. His _soulmate_. Okay. Perfectly logical. Nothing fucking wrong with that.

_United over centuries, bound by divine purpose – what else does that sound like to you?_

It sounds like a bad cosmic joke, is what it sounds like. It sounds like an excuse to justify her iniquitous feelings toward him, a cop-out to shift the blame squarely off of her guilty shoulders. It sounds like the musing of an air-headed little girl far, far stupider than she is. Abbie is an adult, not to mention she could never afford to be air-headed, even when she was little.

She does love Crane, but not in a way that jeopardizes anything, and even if she did she wouldn't let it.

His soulmate. Ha – that's a good one.

What scares her deeply, though, is that he won't leave her dreams, and in her dreams he doesn't seem to recall that he is married or that they are not, in fact, soulmates.

In her dreams, she allows herself to read admiration and affection and _something else_ in his scintillating eyes, allows herself to lean her cheek into his touch.

Because that's just it – it's a _dream_, and he is there, and they are safe.

_Abigail_, he says, and the way the syllables roll over his tongue is like a prayer, throaty and rich. He instills in them a deeper meaning, a higher purpose. His lips stay parted, like he wants to say more, but all that escapes is his warm, sweet breath.

And the way the pad of his thumb brushes so carefully over the delicate skin of her lips, like he is worshipping her… She can feel every line etched into his fingerprint, taste this unique mark that only he – out of every human past, present, or future who has ever walked the earth – has. She tries to remember the patterns, as though they form a map that can lead her to him.

What's more easy to memorize is the palette of blue, green, and gray reflected in his eyes. It reminds her of watching the harbor in a thunderstorm from the docks – beautiful from afar, but treacherous up close. She more than anyone knows how easy it is to get sucked underfoot and drowned.

Still, the fire it ignites inside her is growing more and more difficult to repress when she awakes. And all the while he tells her, _Remember, Abigail, you must remember._

And she asks, always asks, _Remember what, Crane?_

By then he is already washed away, running through her fingers like water. She fights to hold onto him but the tighter she clings, the quicker he slips away, until there is no trace of him left but for the ice-spot on her face where his skin once met hers.

Her heart clenches, because this coldness always heralds her waking up unwillingly to her own empty, brutal reality.

When she sits up in bed she is still freezing, hollow inside, entangled in sheets that should let her feel warmer, better, closer to him, but only make her feel further away. She shivers and shivers and it's not cold, she doesn't have a fever, and she can't figure out why she's shaking and why everything hurts.

Maybe they're not soulmates. But they're Witnesses, and maybe being Witnesses means they're joined at the soul all the same, because their separation certainly feels as though she is being ripped in half.

. . .

It's May 31st, and Ichabod Crane has been missing for ten days.

For Abbie, it has felt like a decade in Hell. If they segue into June without any inkling of where he might be, she doesn't know if she'll be able to stand it.

But then she remembers – what other choice does she have? Surrender (_submission_)? She can't let him down like that. She won't.

It's 12:31 PM when Reyes approaches her desk. Most of the precinct has migrated to the sandwich joint across the street, and Abbie, alone and stewing in her own desperate frustration, sees her glide over with all the subtlety of the grim reaper. Her doe-eyes track the other woman's movements with unbridled mistrust, her attractive features twisted into a frown.

"We got a hit on your boyfriend," she tells her.

Abbie feels an unidentifiable emotion pierce through her body, white-hot. It's so sudden and overwhelming that it feels like cold at first, like plunging your hand into a pot of boiling water. Her lips are moving, mystically, '_He's not my boyfriend_,' but no sound comes out – just one ragged exhalation. The wind has been knocked out of her will all the force of a freight train, and her hands grip the underside of her desk to steady herself, the ridges in the wood imprinting almost painfully into her skin.

"Where?" she eventually manages, sounding far more composed than she expected.

"At a gas station, just outside of Boston last night." She slips her the surveillance footage, which has '05/30/14 10:04 PM' posted at the bottom.

Abbie twitches. Her head gives a quick shake of its on volition, her brain unconsciously rejecting this information. "What?"

"He was alone. An ATM cam caught his face while he was pumping gas."

"Crane doesn't have a car," she insists firmly. _Crane doesn't have any money. Crane doesn't know how to pump gas. Crane barely knows how to drive._

"Yeah, you mentioned that. We ran the plates – the car belongs to a Tony Lucetti from Rhode Island. Reported his car stolen from a park-and-ride about 160 miles from here."

"What? That doesn't make any sense! Crane would never steal a car – he doesn't even know how! There's got to be some other explanation –"

"Mills," Reyes interrupts, "looks like your boyfriend just wanted to take a little joy ride, after all.

"But it's been over a week – he obviously didn't go straight there, so what was he doing in the meantime?"

Reyes shrugs. "Sightseeing, maybe?" she drawls sarcastically. "How should I know? The fact of the matter is, he's just fine."

She gives up trying to defend her perspective; if accepting Reyes' bullshit theory is what it takes to track down Crane, so be it. The ends will certainly justify the means. "Well fine, okay," she starts, "but if he stole a car –"

"It's the RIPD's problem. We've wasted enough time and resources on this wild goose chase already."

"Sheriff, please, you've met him – Crane would never do something like this."

Reyes sucks her teeth and briefly glances out the window behind Abbie's head, some foreign strain of sympathy chipping away at her granite heart. "Yeah, I've met him, and may it never be said that Mr. Crane is not eccentric."

"Okay, sure, but there's a huge difference between eccentric and bat-shit insane," she contends vehemently. Her eyes are flashing with a thick muddle of emotions, fear and protest among them, and her hands emerge from beneath the table to white-knuckle her empty ceramic mug.

"It's not illegal to have a psychotic break, Mills."

Psychotic break. _Psychotic break_. That's what she thinks this is?

Abbie wants to scream or cry, but she does neither. "Okay," she says, just like that. "Fine."

Reyes at least has the decency to look surprised.

"I think I need to take the day," she goes on, and the sheriff's expression reverts to its mask of callous indifference.

"Sure," the other woman says. "Get some rest, Mills. You need it."

. . .

Upon leaving the precinct, Abbie immediately pulls onto the northbound highway. She stamps the accelerator until the muscle in her thigh goes numb, until all the exits and highway markers merge into one clinical, indistinguishable blur of green and white.

At around 4:45 PM she hits traffic, but by then she has nearly reached the gas station Crane was spotted at. Brake lights all around her blink red, Morse code for corporate enslavement, but she feels caught in an exodus that she's not part of. Indeed, she feels wholly apart from human experience, from all things normal that unite everyone else on earth. They don't know what's happening, what's _going_ to happen. They don't know what she's lost.

She reaches the station in Canton at 5:13 PM, and it's only once she parks her car that she realizes she has absolutely no idea what she's doing, or why she even came here.

Cars are lined up in fleets at the pumps, and her hands shake as she locks her door and heads to the convenience shop. She suddenly wishes she'd come at a less busy time.

She waits in a line of people buying cigarettes and gum and water bottles until she reaches the disgruntled man working the counter. His stubble is a fuzzy mass of gray and black, and unwashed strands of hair poke out from beneath his navy blue Red Sox hat.

She flashes her badge. "I got a few questions to ask you," she says, and the people in line behind her make noises of exasperation, abandoning their prospective purchases.

"Well, shit," the man breathes out, shifting on his feet, "whaddyou wanna know?"

She removes a photograph of Crane from her jeans pocket and irons out the folds almost reverently. "Have you seen this man? He stopped here for gas last night at around 10:00 PM."

The man squints his eyes to examine the filmy parcel, and then swipes his right index finger across his nose with a sniff and leans back. "You're gonna wanna ask Tito. He's the one who's got the night shift."

"When does his shift start?" she interrogates.

"Eight," he answers easily.

"Okay," Abbie concedes, tucking the photograph away.

In the meantime, she figures she might as well find a place to stay the night.

. . .

After booking a room in a nearby motel, Abbie returns to the gas station at 8:00 PM sharp.

A short, young man who she presumes to be Tito is working the counter, flipping through the glossy pages of the new _Sports Illustrated_. Although his shift must have just started, he looks as bored as someone who was entering his fifth hour.

"You Tito?" she queries.

His eyes flit up from the page, along with his eyebrows. "Yeah, can I help you?"

Again, she flashes her badge methodically.

"Sleepy Hollow?" he questions. "That's a long ways away, isn't it?"

"Yeah. I'm looking for this man – have you see him? He stopped here last night around ten." She extracts the picture of her lost companion, more hastily this time.

"Oh yeah, I've seen him – tall, British accent?"

"Yeah," pours out of her mouth breathlessly, "that's him." Her heart is thumping a mile-a-minute against her ribs, like a trapped hummingbird, and a wave of dizziness overtakes her.

"Yeah, he just bought some gas – paid in cash," he answers, completely oblivious to the fact that Abbie is hanging on his every word as though her life depended on it.

"Did he say where he was going?"

"No, he seemed kind of out of it. Hardly said a word."

"Out of it?" she demands, feeling her body jolt to steadiness as her blood pressure eventually evens out. "How do you mean?"

Tito scratches the back of his crop of black hair carelessly. "I dunno, like really tired or something. Or on cold medicine. You know, out of it."

"Like drugged?"

His features flicker into some sort of hesitant grimace, but he just shrugs noncommittally, as though he is trying not to unnecessarily incriminate Crane.

"Did you see what direction he went?"

He points his thumb in the direction behind him. "North, I think. He was probably going into the city."

"Okay, thanks," she says, meaning it.

"No problemo."

. . .

That night, Abbie hears her name called in a voice that is not Crane's.

"_Abigail,_" the woman says, sounding urgent but far-off. "_Please, Abigail, you must listen. You are on the right path, but you must hurry – the fate of the Witnesses is in grave trouble…_"

Whoever she is, she is cut off by the shrill ring of Abbie's cell phone. Groggily and confusedly, she scrubs her hands over her face and reaches for the offending object. The light stabs her retinas as text reading 'Jenny' and '1:38 AM' dances across the backlit screen.

"Hello?" she croaks out.

"Where the hell are you?" her sister grills, sounding very, very awake.

"Canton, Mass. Why?"

"What? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Crane was spotted at a gas station here – sorry, I… I guess I just got a little caught up." The truth is, anything in the world that is not directly related to finding Crane has become blurred in her periphery. She paws at her forehead, trying to stave off a stress migraine.

"Whatever – it doesn't even matter. You need to get back here _right now_."

"Why? Jenny – I-I just had another dream… I think… I think I'm close–"

"Something is wrong with Katrina. Really wrong. You need to get back here _now_," she reiterates.

Abbie sits up fully in the too-small alien bed, the telltale high of adrenaline pricking at her veins. "What do you mean wrong?"

"I don't know. The only thing I've been able to figure out is that she's dying."

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><p><strong>AN: What do you guys think?!**


	4. Four

**A/N: Thank you so so so much to Guest, itscalledkarma, nacimynom, driver picks the music, zeejack, trekgeezer, MandyCakes, uneange1, marshmallowdeviant, and TranquillityofPassion for reviewing! I cannot even begin to say how much I appreciate all the feedback, and I'm rather pleased to see that you guys are a bit stumped (I'm really not giving you enough information yet to figure it out, so don't feel like you're missing something). I'm sorry that this chapter is a bit of an interlude (AKA not a lot of answers), but it is important to the plot. I hope you enjoy it all the same!**

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><p><em><strong>FOUR<strong>_

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><p>"What do you mean <em>dying<em>?"

"I… I was in the annex listening to your police radio-"

"_Jenny_-"

"Just listen! And a call came in about a redheaded woman in 18th Century clothing running into the middle of the road and passing out. Obviously, Katrina. So I went to the hospital and I'm telling you, Abs, something is really _really_ wrong with her. She has these black veins all over her stomach and a really high fever, it's definitely supernatural-"

"Okay," Abbie cuts her off. "I'm on my way."

. . .

The roads are deserted as Abbie races back to Sleepy Hollow, leaving her alone with four lanes of pavement and an infinite amount of time to think. It's 3:30 AM and they've finally crashed into June, the arrival of true summer heralded by a warm, misting rain. Droplets of water cling to her windshield, distorting the glare of the yellow streetlamps and causing beams of light to bounce off every window in the car. Because it's not committedly raining, the windshield-wipers paint groaning streaks on the glass and only serve to further blur her bleary-eyed vision. Every so often an eighteen-wheeler will edge into view, but she always bullets past, thankful that her badge will protect her from a speeding citation.

She takes a sip of black coffee from the Styrofoam cup she purchased at the 24-hour Dunkin Donuts she'd passed at the start of her voyage, the liquid scalding the roof of her mouth. The acrid flavor masks the taste of her own blistering flesh.

The way Abbie sees it, she could either leave Katrina to her own devices while she pursues – rather futilely – her husband, or she could do everything in her power to help her.

It shouldn't have been a choice. She has no real lead on Crane apart from a torturously imprecise geographical area, and Katrina's fate is certain if she does not intervene.

Even more, she knows Crane would have wanted her to save Katrina over him. She knows this just as she knows she would be racked with guilt if she didn't at least attempt to honor his wishes. If something happened to Katrina while she was too busy searching for him, he would never forgive her.

And yes, maybe Katrina should be able to take care of herself, and _yes_, maybe Katrina, an allegedly powerful witch, should be able to do more than just act as a burden for everyone else to shoulder. But the facts are the facts, and Abbie can't just let her die.

As she traverses the Massachusetts border, her thoughts cannot help but meander back to her dream – who had been speaking to her? It was not a voice that she immediately recognized, but it was not altogether unfamiliar. She just couldn't place it.

"_You are on the right path_," the mysterious woman had said.

Well, not anymore.

. . .

When Abbie finds her, the usually lovely Katrina Crane is lying prone in a hospital bed with sweat accruing on her pallid forehead. Rivulets of ginger hair snake across her clammy skin, mirroring the web-like patterns on her concave stomach.

Jenny is at her bedside, studying her scientifically.

"How long has she been like this?" Abbie demands as she strides across the small room.

"She's gotten worse since I called," her sister replies, not quite answering her query. Her tone is stark and detached.

Abbie gives Katrina a scrupulous once-over. The other woman's scrubs have been hiked up to expose her abdomen, revealing creamy skin marred by some enigmatic affliction.

Her gaze jumps to a stone-faced Jenny. "What did the doctors say?"

She adjusts her bite, before answering, "They haven't been able to figure it out yet. All they've been able to do is keep her hydrated and try to keep the fever down, but as you can see their efforts haven't exactly been effective. She's in and out. Every so often, she-"

As if on cue, Katrina's slender body arches off the mattress and her hands curl in on themselves. While her convulsing rattles the bedframe with each unearthly jerk of limbs, her eyes roll back into her skull, and Abbie's hand flies to her forehead to ascertain her mounting temperature.

"She's been having febrile seizures," Jenny finishes, still maintaining her eerie serenity. "The doctors said it's nothing too unusual for a fever this high, and she doesn't have meningitis or encephalitis so she should be okay."

"You said this was definitely supernatural," Abbie barks.

"You see those veins? Definitely supernatural. I said the _doctors_ said she should be okay – not me."

After a beat of silence, she declares, "We have to get her out of here."

Jenny nods, teeth clenched and accentuating the hollows of her cheeks. The younger Mills' sharp cheekbones – combined with her dangerously (and _perfectly_) curved brows – gave her a perpetually no-nonsense look, now more than ever.

When Katrina's seizure subsides, the two sisters wind one of her arms across each of their shoulders and hoist her out of the room. She is light and, between the two of them, they are able to carry her with ease. The redhead is taller than both Mills', but while her figure is slim and bony, theirs are athletic and comprised of trim, wiry muscle.

"W-what is going on?" she stammers dizzily as her feet drag across the blacktop to Abbie's SUV. They've dressed her in some drunken goth teen's clothes so as to disguise her, combat boots and all. She was only half-cogent for the process, but she is apparently now regaining her wits.

"We're taking you somewhere safe to figure out what's wrong with you," is Abbie's plain response.

Katrina's jade eyes flit to hers. "But Ichabod-"

"Ichabod's not going to want to come home and see his wife like this," Abbie quashes.

A strange understanding is exchanged between them, and when Katrina ostensibly comprehends that Abbie is by no means forsaking her search for Crane, she goes on, "I think Jeremy must have had some hand in this. He anticipated my illness, and several men arrived at Abraham's home to take me away at his instruction, which is why I was forced to flee."

Jeremy. _Henry. _

The Second Horseman. _War._

No shit, Abbie thinks.

The Cranes' son – the two of them, together, brought an abomination into the world, an abomination of biblical proportions, and yet they refuse to see it. How many times has she tried to convince them that he's beyond saving, that he's putting the _entire human race_ at risk? And how many times have they ignored her?

But, Abbie takes no satisfaction in saying, 'I told you so.' And she tries never to pit Crane against his family, because in doing so she would be… _tainting_ things. Even though her misgivings are founded firmly in objective grounds, compounded with her and Crane's almost inexcusably codependent relationship, they take on a new, ulterior shape that she finds frankly repulsive. So, she tries to bite her tongue.

The thing is, though, she was never very good at that.

And her subconscious hums, almost knowingly, _The product of their love is toxic. If that's not a sign, I don't know what is._

She asks for signs all the time, so she's always on the lookout for them; she'd have to be willfully blind not to see this one. And she is – she is willfully blind, because if everyone saw things clearly, as she could see them, all hell would break loose. Not that it's not already, but...

There's already chaos around them. If there's chaos _among_ them, then everything will surely unravel.

For the longest time, Abbie was the glue keeping her broken family in one piece. And when that crumbled despite her best efforts, she vowed never to allow herself to be hurt like that again. And yet here she is, gluing everyone together just like before. Coming around for another beating.

Things used to be so different, so simple, when it was just the two of them (_she and Ichabod, if that's not clear, for nowadays her heart only thumps to the beat of Crane Crane Crane_). Of course it didn't seem simple at the time, but in retrospect they had no idea how lucky they had been. And now, with all these external factors influencing them, they allowed themselves to slip into perdition.

"Where to?" Jenny's voice jars her. The car is running, exhaust spewing from the tailpipe and mingling with the humid air.

"The annex."

. . .

They transport Katrina to the archives in the hope that they will be able to research her malady and find some sort of literature defining how to cure it.

These sorts of things had always been Crane's forte, not hers.

_Maybe you'll have to learn to live without him_.

All of a sudden her heart spasms, rebelling against this notion. But her brain presses forward.

She starts with the Internet.

"Katrina," she says, "you said some men came to take you away – do you remember anything about them? What they looked like, if they had anything strange with them?"

"One of the men was carrying a notebook," she answers tiredly, hunched against the wall. "It had a symbol on it."

"What did the symbol look like?" she continues to probe. Her fingers are itching and ready to type into the search bar.

"The head of a goat, with the Rod of Asclepius jutting from the center."

"Rod of Asclepius?" Jenny interjects.

"It is a symbol in Greek mythology associated with Asclepius, the god of healing and medicine," Katrina supplies.

"You'd recognize it if you saw it," Abbie adds. "You've probably seen it a million times in hospitals or pharmacies. It's the rod with the snake coiled around it."

Jenny's lips part to an 'O' of understanding, and Abbie quickly enters the information Katrina has provided into Google.

"'Baphomet' ring any bells with anyone?" Abbie questions after an image search. "The Goat of Mendes?" She swivels the computer in Katrina's direction, and she nods.

"That is what I saw," she confirms.

"That's a common occult symbol," Jenny offers, leaning back in her chair. "It's also associated with the Knights Templar."

"Of course it is," Abbie grumbles to herself.

"The Knights Templar are often seen as direct predecessors to the Freemasons," the redhead says, wincing in pain as a wave of nausea overtakes her. She swallows hard, before continuing, "A-and furthermore, there were many… _perversions_ of Freemason activity; it would not surprise me in the least if occult worship was among them."

"Try searching the Hellfire Club," Jenny tries. "They were one of the more satanic branch-offs of the Freemasons in 18th Century England."

Katrina's eyes widen. "I have heard of that group," she announces. "Benjamin Franklin infiltrated their ranks."

Now, Abbie's eyes widen. "We have his notebook," she says, rifling through the desk drawers. Eventually she brandishes a moleskin journal with yellowed parchment pages. She flips through it, her eyes skimming the baroque script; it is not a simple task, and not one that can be completed at the speed she desires.

Eventually, she comes across a drawing of a woman, with blackened veins like Katrina's.

"Jenny, c'mere," she commands.

Jenny hops up from her seat and treads over to Abbie, her brow creasing as she studies the depiction.

"Shit," she mutters after a moment.

"What is it?" Katrina questions apprehensively.

Abbie crouches beside the ill woman, showing her the page. "It seems," she starts, inhaling a deep breath of air, "that you're part of some ploy to deliver a demon into the world."

"But not just any demon," Jenny appends.

"… Moloch," Katrina breathes.

"I'd say," Abbie replies solemnly.

"When you say deliver…" Katrina peers down at her once-flat stomach, which is beginning to become distended.

"Yeah. _Deliver_," the elder Mills finishes. "It says the 'incubation' is forty-eight to seventy-two hours. Katrina, how long have you been sick for?"

"The illness progressed slowly at first, but I have not been feeling myself since yesterday morning."

Abbie and Jenny lock eyes. "That doesn't give us a lot of time," the younger of the two remarks.

"Wha-what happens at the end of the incubation period?" asks Katrina.

Abbie pauses hesitantly, before answering, "It says here, the 'expiration of the vessel.'"

The other woman's hand subconsciously settles on the area, while her features morph into a look of utter horror. "We must stop this," she says, looking past the two sisters. Her eyes are glassy and bloodshot, and seem to be staring into some abyss rather than the antique map of Sleepy Hollow hanging on the wall across from them.

"No kidding," Jenny murmurs.

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><p><strong>AN: So, the search for Crane is on pause for the moment. What do you guys think? I'm not Katrina's biggest fan (to say the least), but I tried to write her as neutrally as I could lol. Also, this story was only supposed to be five chapters, but that's clearly not happening anymore haha. I'll try to update ASAP, but reviews always help the process along! Thanks for reading :)**


	5. Five

**A/N: Yeeeeesh sorry for the delay, guys! I'm a little all over the place in life at the moment. As always, thank you so so so much to DragonRose4, zeejack, Guests, marshmallowdeviant, trekgeezer, gatheryourbreath, driver picks the music, and itscalledkarma for reviewing! You guys are awesome! I hope you all enjoy this chapter.**

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><p><em><strong>FIVE<strong>_

* * *

><p>"<em>Lieutenant, I fear I am in grave trouble."<em>

_Abbie steps close to Crane, as close as has come to feel commonplace. This time, however, his eyes dart over her with a foreign glimmer of unease and he shuffles backwards just a hair. She freezes, paralyzed by surprise and an unexpectedly potent feeling of rejection._

"_Crane?" she murmurs, "Is that you?"_

"_Why, yes," he begins slowly, his brilliant mind no doubt trying to decrypt the subtext in her words. "You speak as though you have seen me before," he hazards. His tone is different, but his honeyed voice drips over her like rain after a drought all the same._

_Abbie feels her brows lift on their own accord, and then she ensnares him in a bone-crushing embrace. _

_Crane, more comfortable now that their standing has been established, returns the motion, resting his chin atop her head for as long as could possibly be deemed decorous._

_When they pull apart, he looks immensely relieved to see her, and her face is undoubtedly reflecting the same sentiment. "That's because I have," she states flatly in response. "Are you telling me this is _you _you? Like, Witness you?"_

"_Indeed," he replies. "Whatever incarnation of me you have seen before, it had no doubt been a manifestation of your own subconscious." There is an underlying trace of something worrying in his words._

_This is certainly not what she wants to hear, but she doesn't dwell on it, nor does she betray her disappointment. "Whoa. So how are you talking to me?"_

"_I have lost nearly all dominion over my own actions, but every so often I am able to reach out of this dreamlike state I have been dragooned into," he spits. More contemplatively, he finishes, "Never so long as now, though, and I wager my efforts have resulted in some degree of proficiency, since I have managed to communicate with you. Sifting through peoples' dreams is… an invasive and imprecise experience, to say the least." A faint blush colors his cheeks, and she offhandedly wonders whose sordid fantasies he plowed into._

"_Where the hell are you, Crane?" she demands, trying not to let a pent-up whine seep into her voice. "I've been looking for you for days."_

"_I really have very little recollection," he admits, "but I am somewhere underground, in a chamber much like the ones we have become familiar with in the tunnels running beneath Sleepy Hollow."_

"_But you're not in Sleepy Hollow?"_

"_No. I would recognize my surroundings, surely."_

"_How can you see? You said you're in a 'dreamlike state,'" she air-quotes._

"_Yes, but I am aware of my current setting, and I am able to open my eyes when whatever is controlling me commands it. I have no jurisdiction over my actions, but I am aware of them, though I cannot access the memory of what I have done since entering this horrid state."_

_A sharp clap breaches the silence engulfing them._

"_Oh dear. Miss Mills, I suspect you are about to be awoken."_

_Abbie examines Crane's face in wild urgency. "How do I get to you?" _

_A second clap resonates through her skull, louder this time._

"_I do not know," he replies forlornly, "but know this: my hellish bindings are without question derived from black magic. Find the witch or warlock who is responsible for this, and I predict you will find me."_

"_Okay. I'll find you Crane, I'll-"_

_He smiles melancholically at the knowledge that their time together is drawing to a close. "I know you will, farewell Miss-"_

"Abbie? Abbie? Wake up!"

The voice belongs to Jenny, as does the pair of clapping hands.

Abbie tries to expel the fog of sleep from her brain by massaging her forehead, but when she removes her hands from her face, Jenny sees a dazed expression gracing her features.

"You were really out," her sister comments grimly, looming above her desk in the archives with a pizza box in hand.

"For how long?" she questions.

"I dunno. I was only gone for forty-five minutes. Here-" she sets the shallow cardboard box down in front of her- "I got dinner."

Abbie casts her gaze to Katrina, who is sleeping fitfully on a makeshift cot they fashioned out of chairs and abandoned cushions.

"What time is it?"

Jenny peers at her military-grade digital watch. "Eleven."

"Dammit," she curses. They have very little time left to help Katrina, before…

"You find anything else?" questions the younger Mills.

The other shakes her head dissentingly. "I had another dream," she says cautiously.

Jenny appears one dream conversation away from a complete meltdown of sassy remarks and eye-rolls, but humors her, "Sure you did, MLK. About?"

"Crane, again…"

The taller of the two is unable to smother the irascible huff that escapes her lips.

Abbie quickly rectifies, "This time I think it was really him, though. Like, reaching through the veil."

Her well-coifed eyebrows knit together. "What'd he say?"

"He said he's in some underground chamber, under a spell cast by black magic."

"Whoa," Jenny mutters. "That's a hellova bomb to drop during a nap."

"Yeah, well, the spell makes it so he has no control over his body, but he said he can bypass whoever or _what_ever is controlling him in dreams. And he said he's not in Sleepy Hollow, so I figure he must be-"

"In Boston," she finishes.

"Yeah."

"Well, what're they planning on doing with him?"

Abbie shrugs. "He didn't say. Can't imagine it's anything good, though."

"Don'tcha think they would've killed him already, if that's what they were planning?" she reasons, hoping this logical assumption will do something to pacify her sister's crippling obsession with finding Crane.

The other snorts, "That's one way of looking at it."

"Did you tell him about-" Jenny beckons to their slumbering companion, whose abdomen is swelling steadily as the demonic fetus grows.

Again, Abbie shakes her head. "There wasn't much time," she explains. _And why torment him further?_

"Okay. So what are we gonna do?"

"Well, first and foremost, we gotta figure out how to save Katrina and put the other issue on pause," she starts, extracting a slice of pizza from the grease-stained box and leaving tendrils of mozzarella in her wake. "After we fix this, we can deal with Crane." She frowns to herself in contemplation as she chews, before amending, "The _other _Crane."

"We exhausted this place," Jenny states. "We've turned it inside-out. Where else can we possibly look for answers?"

Katrina stirs, and is so alert when her eyes open that the Mills sisters almost suspect she has been eavesdropping the entire time.

"I have an idea," she says breathily, pain making her voice more hoarse than usual.

"Yeah?" Abbie questions.

"Jeremy… My son… He is far more powerful than I, and he is a Sin Eater. Perhaps he has the strength to purge this evil from my body."

Both siblings gawk unabashedly.

"You mean Henry?" Jenny deadpans, "_Henry. _Horseman-of-War-Henry? The same Henry who's tried to kill us on – oh, I dunno, _hundreds _of occasions? That Henry? Great idea. Solid. Hell, I'm on board."

"He is not just the Horseman of War, he is my _child_," she bristles defiantly, jade eyes narrowed.

"_Yeeeah_," Abbie says uncomfortably, trying to fill the sudden, blaring silence. "So, the thing is, Henry hasn't really been all that helpful in the past-"

"Kind of the opposite," Jenny chimes in, arms crossed.

"-And I don't have a whole lot of faith he'll be much of a solution," the elder sister finishes.

Katrina angles her chin out, struggling to straighten into a seated position. "Still, I am his mother," she insists succinctly. "He chooses to reside in home where I left him as a child. Surely that is a sign of where his heart truly lies – you are correct in assuming he wants my husband and I to suffer. And indeed, he only wants us to suffer because he _cares_, and so long as he cares, he can be redeemed."

"Look, I know you think so, but he hasn't given us a whole lot of evidence to work with. And say you're right – say he _is _redeemable – it's going to be a long, _long_ road. It's sure as hell not gonna happen in a matter of hours."

The other woman's eyes become strikingly lucid, locking Abbie's, and she says, "What other choice do we have? We must beseech Jeremy, or… or I will die."

. . .

The next morning, Abbie finds herself at Tarrytown Psychiatric. It is a haunting place for both of the Mills sisters, but more so for Jenny, which is why Abbie is the one going to rendezvous with Henry.

Still, though, she remembers visiting her mother here, and later her sister. She remembers. She remembers being thirteen, clutching Jenny to her chest as they watched their only remaining family member shriek about demons in a padded cell, staring at them with feral, unseeing eyes. She remembers being dragged away by faceless authorities, being told it would be 'all right' and knowing, deep to her very core, that it would not be. She remembers.

And now, the demons are here. Her mother was punished for a crime she was not truly guilty of: insanity.

As she walks through the halls, under the unnatural lighting, dread thumps in her jugular.

Henry is waiting for her in the common room, dressed as an attorney.

"I must say, Miss Mills," he begins, feigning innocence, "when I received your call, I was intrigued."

"Cut the bullshit, Henry," she snaps. "We both know why I'm here."

"My my, quite the spitfire. I've grown so used to dealing with my Puritanical parents that I'd nearly forgotten how… _brusque_ today's interactions tend to be. I must admit, I'm a bit surprised that they chose to send _you_ to do their bidding."

Abbie narrows her eyes quizzically; she'd been convinced that Henry was aware of his father's absence, but now she's not so certain. If he _doesn't_ know that Crane is missing, she's not sure whether or not to show her hand just yet.

"Yeah, well, I volunteered," she dismisses, slicing straight to the point, "Your mother is dying. Now, maybe you're to blame for it – I don't know. But if you're not, she's your mother and she's dying, and you can save her. Your parents seem to think there's some good left in you. Me? I'm not sold, but I figured it's worth a shot."

Henry laughs uproariously until his eyes water. Abbie flinches slightly at the sudden noise and watches him, unsettled. When he eventually composes himself, he sniffs and says, "Oh, dear me! Of _course_ I am to blame, you fool! And the demon she carries is _more_ than just a simple demon, Lieutenant. It is Moloch. From the ashes of my biological parentage, my true father shall rise. Isn't it poetic?"

Abbie's eyes widen, and the situation becomes infinitely more dire – it's not just Katrina's life at stake, anymore. It's everyone's.

"Listen to me, Henry," she says urgently. "This teen angst thing? You _have_ to let it go. Believe me, I've been there. If anyone can understand having screwed up parents, it's me. So believe me when I say that this is _not_ what you want to do. You still care about them – you must, if you hate them so much. Your parents are _willing_ to welcome you with open arms, to forgive all your transgressions. Do you realize how few people could look past what you've done? I sure as hell couldn't. It's not your parents' fault that they abandoned you. It wasn't a choice, and you need to stop treating it like it was."

"How uncanny. I know you do not believe I can be swayed from this course, Miss Mills." He cocks his head felinely, looking at her with great curiosity. "… And yet you try…"

She exhales sharply, trying to calm herself. "She's your mother, Henry. You only get one-"

"Ah yes," he cuts he off, "_your_ mother took her own life within these very walls, didn't she? This must be painful for you. What would you say to her, given what you know now? Knowing you had her institutionalized, and then grew up to do the very same to your sister? Their fears were valid, and yet you could not see it until the damage had already been done… What a cruel god you serve. Still, you _hated _her, didn't you? And rightfully so – she destroyed your family-"

"We're not here to talk about me," she deflects, forcing her voice to sound sickly sweet. Her poker face is strong. It always has been. A ghost of a smirk pulls at her lips, just to throw him.

Yet, he can see through her. "I will not help my mother," he states unyieldingly, apparently growing bored of tormenting her. "She will die, and Moloch will rise, killing you and my father in the process. And then the Dark Prince will reign freely on this earth, ushering in a new era of blood and fire."

Abbie grits her teeth, brushing off the front of her slacks as she stands. _Can't say I didn't try,_ she thinks. But now, Team Anti-Apocalypse left with even less than they started with.

. . .

Abbie returns to the archives empty-handed, her failure displayed clearly across her features. Jenny quirks an eyebrow upon seeing her, and Abbie just shakes her head dismally.

Katrina's expression becomes crestfallen; it belongs more to a disappointed mother than someone who's just been informed of their impending demise.

It is Jenny (always Jenny) who says what they are all thinking: "Now what?"

"The demon she's carrying is Moloch," Abbie announces, and both other women look distressed.

"Shit. We have to do something!"

The redhead clutches her stomach, jaw clenched. "I-I fear," she stammers, "we have very little time left…" Her eyes flit up and bore into Abbie's. "If I should perish," she continues, "Y-you… you must tell Ichabod…"

"Stop," she interrupts. "Stop talking like that, Katrina. There's always a way. _Always_. And we will find it, we just have to-"

"_Please_," she begs, impassioned, "please, Abigail. You must. Tell him that I loved him, and that I am sorry for all that has come between us. I know now that it was wrong to deceive him as I did, and the bounds of my remorse are fathomless."

"Katrina…" Jenny tries.

"And I am sorry that I was wrong about our son in this instance, but tell him – tell him that I still have hope for Jeremy, that there will always be hope…" She goes on, "And tell him that I am sorry to leave this fight so early. I realize that I have not been able to be of much help yet, and it pains me more than anything to think that I should die before I can make an impact on this war…"

It's only now that Abbie notices Katrina fiddling with something in her left hand.

She doesn't realize what it is until it's already too late.

The gleam of metal catches the afternoon light, and in a flash a blade is wedged into Katrina's abdomen, blood surging from the wound.

Both Mills sisters leap to her side, and Abbie immediately applies pressure to the wound.

"What have you done?!" she demands hysterically.

She's loosing so much blood, and so quickly. Eyelids drooping, she replies, "Y-you say the demon I am carrying is Moloch. He cannot be born if his vessel expires before his birth, and he _must not_ be born."

Abbie feels tears stab the backs of her eyes – this is a solution, yes. But is it the absolute worst one.

"I must do this, Abigail," she says, voice inexplicably soothing. It is as though as her consciousness fades, so too does her excruciating pain. "This is the sacrifice I must make to avert the Apocalypse, if only for a while longer… Just… You must find my husband. This war is yours to win, but only if you are united."

Each sister is clinging to one of her pale hands, as though in holding onto her they can force her to hold onto life.

Abbie can hardly believe what she is witnessing. _No no no, _she thinks_, this doesn't happen. _This is not part of the plan. They never lose so profoundly.

"Katrina," she chokes, and Katrina smiles, eerily serene.

There's blood everywhere. Red and sticky, staining the chair, staining the floor, staining her clothes. Staining Abbie.

She has seen people die before, and so has Jenny – they can both tell that Katrina will soon be gone. Her face is loosing color rapidly, and her breathing is shallow. It's just a matter of moments.

By now, tears are streaming down Abbie's face as she stares at yet another victim of this war, at yet another person she has failed. _How could I let this happen?_

Jade eyes go dim, unpolished, as the last spark of life leaches out of Katrina's defiled body.

Abbie has blood on her hands, literally. She looks up to the sky, the ceiling, and a wild, unbidden sob claws up her throat. She can't help but think, _This is my fault. _

_I let Katrina die._

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><p><strong>AN: What do you think?! We get some answers! I tried to make Katrina somewhat likable, despite her delusional faith in Henry. Hopefully it was OK. Pretty much this whole story is a metaphor for how freaking lost this show is at the moment, and how desperately the Cranes need to listen to Abbie lol. I don't categorically hate Katrina because I love Abbie - I just think they've portrayed her all wrong on the show. You may disagree with me, but I think this needed to happen in the episode - Katrina needs to go, but she needs to be redeemed before she does (unless they just go all-in and make her a villain, which I can't imagine they will). That's what I attempted to do here. Let me know what you think! Thanks for reading :)**


	6. Six

**Sorry for the delay, my friends! I hope you all had a happy New Year! As always, thank you so much to driver picks the music, nacimynom, zeejack, cocoalounge, uneange1, and weirdibabi1 for reviewing! You guys are awesome, and I'm glad you seemed to like how I treated that episode. I hope you enjoyed this chapter!**

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><p><em><strong>SIX<strong>_

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><p>Jenny and Abbie sit with Katrina's corpse for almost twenty minutes without speaking. Teary stares meet, and each sister sees just how lost the other is.<p>

Abbie, though, is more adrift.

It's June 2nd, almost June 3rd. And even though she now has an _inkling_ of where to find Crane, if and when she finds him, she has to deliver the most horrible news imaginable. She knows Crane well, and she knows this will destroy him, would destroy anyone – his son killed his wife. That's not something you come back from.

And, despite Katrina's dying testament, matricide is _not_ a crime you can be absolved of. How Crane will attempt to reconcile these two facts, she does not know. She can only hope that he doesn't self-combust in the process.

Katrina's bloody departure from this world was swift, unexpected, and left the Mills sisters stunned. Yes, things have turned out badly for them before – nearly their entire lives have been comprised of tragedy after tragedy, one after the other with hardly a beat in between. But this unending sequence has never been so abrupt as it is now. Abbie hasn't felt this ungrounded since Corbin was murdered. And when Crane entered her life at almost that exact same moment, everything since – somehow and inexplicably – seemed to turn out all right, in the end. She escaped from Purgatory, he Houdini'ed his way out of that pine box. Certainly they have been through insurmountable hardships before, but it often seemed the tides ran in their favor.

Not anymore.

"We have to deal with this," Jenny says eventually, motioning to the body. These days, she is always (perhaps incongruously, given her tainted past) the voice of reason.

"Okay," Abbie agrees.

For the sake of subtlety, they don't give Katrina's body the dignified transportation she deserves. Rolled up in a carpet and crammed into the back of Abbie's Jeep is a far cry from an ornate casket inside a sleek black hearse, or whatever else they wish they could have provided her with after they failed to provide her with everything that mattered. And maybe they could have given her these meaningless things, if they could explain her existence.

But they can't, so they don't.

In the dead of night, they bury her in her hollow grave, beneath the headstone that was erected for her two centuries earlier.

_Burnt for witchcraft, _it reads.

Not quite.

Eyes leaking unwanted tears, they pause after Jenny pats the fresh heap of soil with the back of her shovel, waiting. Waiting for something, for some sign that maybe, _just-kidding_, this didn't actually happen. Waiting for some sign from God that it's not all lost, that they didn't fuck up as badly as they think, that they're not miles away from the road they need to be on.

They wait for nothing; there is no sign, nothing happens.

Crickets are erupting in their nightly symphony, but the silence between them stretches on. One of them, if not both, feels they have been burying things together since that day in the woods.

One time, before Mom got really bad and everything turned to ash, they had a pet hamster named Sally. Sally lived out her lifespan to the absolute maximum, which is to say she died after two or three years of life in a sawdust-filled cage. Their mother had bought Abbie the critter during a hormonal moment of weakness while she was pregnant with Jenny – her eldest could be very persuasive, and when she claimed taking care of a pet would help her prepare for becoming a big sister, Lori Mills had been unable to deny her.

Believe it or not, Jenny had been a sensitive child at the tender age of three, with a bleeding heart. A bleeding heart that wasn't stitched up until she saw a monster in the trees and everyone – even her sister, her protector, her idol – told her she didn't.

Abbie gave the eulogy.

Jenny prompted, _"I-I think you're s'pposed to say something."_

"_You were a good girl, Sally," _she said, standing over the Sketchers coffin. _"I always liked the way your nose did that wiggly thing. We'll miss you."_

Jenny was crying, arms wrapped around her waist and damp face pressed against her shirt. Salty tears seeped through the fabric, warm as her sister's shrimpy little body. Abbie hadn't had any idea that Jenny would soon grow to be a head taller than she was, and right now she was the big sister in every sense of the title.

Their mother watched the scene from the kitchen window.

Jenny sniffed, wiped her running nose with the back of her hand. _"Thanks, Abbie," _she said. _"Sally's gone to live with the angels, right? Like Mama said?"_

"_Yeah," _Abbie replied sagely, knowing she was lying even then. _"She's in heaven, eating lots of treats."_

Maybe heaven does exist; but right now, they only have proof of Hell and Purgatory. And _real_ Purgatory is more like Dante's Purgatory – the outer circle of Hell.

It would be naïve to hope that Katrina is in a better place, and it would be downright stupid to say so.

They stare at the weathered grave. This event is carved into their reality – unable to be undone – just like the letters in the stone. The barrier between life and death is thickly drawn, but so easily crossed.

Only they will know that Katrina didn't die two hundred years earlier, and only they will mourn her.

At some point, Abbie murmurs, "I'm sorry, Katrina. You didn't die for nothing."

And then she turns on her heel and walks towards the car.

. . .

That night, the line between real and surreal becomes even more blurred than usual.

"_Abigail,"_ rings that same, unknown feminine voice, speaking to her through a fever dream, _"you must have strength. Search your soul for it, my child. You are stronger than you think. You were chosen for this purpose because you are the strongest of us all."_

"_Who are you?!"_ Abbie tries to scream, but her vocal chords feel as though have been severed. She is mute, helpless, and the attempt grates like sandpaper against her throat.

She wakes up. Really, she flinches to consciousness with a jerk, like she's been flung off a ledge.

_How are you going to tell Crane?_

_He'll hate you forever, and rightfully so._

_This is your fault._

_You ruin everything you touch._

_You let everyone down._

_You let this happen before._

_You'll let this happen again._

_You let this happen._

_You let happen because-_

"Be strong, Abigail," is uttered aloud. She searches the room wildly, unable to find the source of the noise.

That is, until she peers into the mirror across the room.

It is not her own reflection that peers back, but some of the features align in familial resemblance. _"Grace?" _she questions in disbelief.

"Yes, it is I."

"What are you doing here!?"

"I would explain, my child, but I have very little time. I'm speaking to you from 1782, which requires an inordinate amount of magic. The coven that has captured Ichabod – they are the dark coven that branched off from Mr. Fredericks' upon arriving in the colonies. They are trying to harness the power of the Summer Solstice to-" The connection goes static; Abbie can still see Grace, but she can't hear her.

"What? Grace?"

The sound picks back up. "Where precisely, I do not know, but you must be prepared. I am sure they have devised obstacles to keep you from finding him-"

Again, communication becomes fuzzy.

"-but you must be strong, Abigail. Anyone can find reason to blame oneself, when one searches as fervidly as you do-"

"How do you know-?"

"I know more than you might think, dear. You must make haste. I do not have any time left. Find Ichabod Crane, and-"

All of a sudden the image dissipates, and Abbie is confronted head-on with her own drawn face.

"Holy shit," she mumbles to herself, scrubbing her hands over her face. "Jenny!" she shrieks.

Jenny comes rushing in, socks sliding on the hardwood floor, with a kitchen knife wielded. "What is it?!"

"I… I just saw Grace Dixon."

"Grace Dixon? As in our _ancestor_? What, like a ghost?"

Abbie eyes the would-be weapon warily. "For starters, you can put the knife down. I'm okay."

"Sorry," Jenny mutters sheepishly, placing it on the dresser. "So, you saw her ghost again?"

"No, not exactly," she explains in trepidation. "She-she said she was speaking to me from 1782."

Jenny's eyebrows almost meet in her confusion. "_What_? How is that possible?"

The other woman shakes her head fruitlessly. "I dunno. She said they're holding him, waiting to make their move until the Summer Solstice. I guess that's when their magic will be at a peak."

"Waiting to make _what_ move, exactly?"

"I don't know," she repeats. "The people who took him are the dark branch of Katrina and Lachlan Fredericks' coven."

Jenny purses her lips in thought. "You ever think… Maybe they're not in Boston?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, dark witches? Summer Solstice? There's a place just outside of Boston that's known for all this witchy shit."

"Salem," Abbie breathes in revelation. "You think he's in Salem?"

"I'd say it's a better bet. Katrina was convicted for witchcraft in Sleepy Hollow, and she is-_was_ in fact a witch. What if those psychos in Salem weren't completely off?"

Abbie chews the inside of her cheek, contemplating this possibility. "You could be right," she allows finally.

"So what's the plan?" Jenny prompts. "We go to Salem and tear the town apart looking for Crane?"

The elder Mills crumples on the edge of the bed, and her sister wordlessly follows suit.

Abbie scratches at a patch of hair behind her ear, before replying, "We've gotta go tomorrow. The longer we wait, the stronger they get, apparently. It's not going to be easy. Grace said they would be expecting us, and that getting to Crane wouldn't be a walk in the park."

"That doesn't answer my question, though. How are we even going to _find _him?"

"We know he's underground, and we suspect he's in Salem. That's all we've got, but it could be enough." She pauses, shifting her jaw and faintly correcting, "It has to be enough."

Jenny's features soften, and she places her hand on her sister's narrow shoulder. "Abs," she starts, "we'll find him."

"I know we will," she says determinedly, picking her gaze up from the floor. Her eyes bore raptly into Jenny's as she goes on, "But when we find him, after we tell him… He'll never be the same. The Crane we knew… He's as good as dead, and the last time I saw him alive was May 20th. I just wish-I just wish I could have realized then, that I could have stopped this whole thing from happening. Katrina wouldn't be dead if Crane had been here. He would have found a way – he _always _finds a way-"

"_You _always find a way," Jenny interrupts passionately. "You didn't this time. But… these things happen. This is a war – there are going to be casualties. Katrina did what neither of us could have done, but she did what had to happen. You get that we would've had to kill her, right? We couldn't let Moloch be… be _born_. Katrina died bravely, and just because you couldn't have saved her doesn't mean you didn't do everything you could."

They both pause, trying to rein in their emotions – the Mills sisters were never very comfortable with heart-to-hearts, and this tidal wave is catching them off guard.

The younger of the two goes on, "You can't save everyone, Abbie. You don't have to. It's not on you. I don't know what's making you feel like you do, if it's guilt, or… I forgive you. Mom would forgive you, too. Katrina didn't even blame you in the first place, and neither will Crane. He was a soldier, Abbie. He understands how these things work. Of course he's going to be heartbroken, but he's not going to blame you – if anyone is to blame, it's Henry."

"His _son,_" Abbie interjects, covering her face.

Jenny winces. "Yeah. His son. Look, it's gonna be horrible. I'm not going to pretend that it's not. But it's also not your fault."

Abbie straightens, and steels herself. "Here's what we're going to do," she says matter-of-factly. "We're going to find Crane, we're going to come back to Sleepy Hollow, and we're going to end this once and for all – we're going to make Henry pay for what he's done."

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><p><strong>AN: Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think!**


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